Repairs
by nikitee
Summary: Archer thinks he knows what's going on... Trip actually does! T'Pol chooses her bond-mate.
1. Archer

DISCLAIMER: They all belong to Paramount, not me... no profit, just recreation here!  
  
NOTE: Please be kind - this is my first ever fic, if you don't count creative writing in grade school! Warning: There are spoilers for just about every ep they've produced in here, and if you aren't a fan of R/smut prose, stop about half way through chapter 5, and pick up on 6. The rest is PG/PG-13.  
  
***  
  
He was standing in the rain. It was pouring, and he was soaked, shivering. He looked around: they were all there, looking at the small casket. Dressed in black. They had umbrellas. He was soaked... drenched... drowning and freezing at the same time. Phlox's voice droned, loud and monotonous, but he couldn't hear the words. Gallons of water, it seemed, rushed past his ears. Then she stepped up to him, covered him with her umbrella. So now he was dry, but still cold. She took his hand, but her fingers were like ice...  
  
And then they were in decon, alone. The blue light made him shiver, despite the heat he felt building when he looked at her. Her body was so finely chiseled, he thought, and her skin shimmered like diamonds in the icy glow. He wrapped his arms around her, to give her some of his heat, willing her to respond to his touch, to ignite in his embrace.  
  
Her lips were cold when they kissed. Cold? Like space? Space is very big, you know... He started awake... sickbay, he was in sickbay... Porthos?  
  
***  
  
"It concerns one of the crew. May I speak with you privately, Captain?"  
  
Jon Archer nodded, and waved casually at Trip Tucker, who was draped over the easy chair closest to the desk, leg dangling. Recorded football could wait, if it had to... The engineer downed the last bit of precious Guinness in his bottle, planted the empty on Jon's desk with a tired grin, and headed for the door. "Don't watch the end without me. I wanna see the Gators cream yer sorry team."  
  
The captain smirked and returned his attentions to Phlox. "Sit down, Doc... what's up?"  
  
"It's a delicate situation..." he paused, unsure of how to begin. "Several of the senior staff were... mistreated by the Suliban, as you know..."  
  
Jon's expression darkened as he thought of the Malcolm Reed he'd seen lying in sickbay after the Helix incident, face bruised and swollen, ribs crushed. Pain was etched on his pale face, along with defiance and satisfaction. He'd done his duty, and lived. Mistreated was an understatement...  
  
"...unforeseen complications to normal development could be significant, even life threatening," the doctor continued, the characteristic cheer gone from his voice and expression.  
  
"Wait, say that again?"  
  
"You are aware that the Subcommander is older than any of the humans aboard Enterprise, but she is young by Vulcan standards. She has not yet reached full maturity either physiologically or psychologically. Her experiences with Tolaris and the Suliban have complicated the situation beyond my ability to deal with... medically."  
  
"T'Pol? I'm not getting this, Doc. What's wrong?"  
  
Phlox pursed his lips, and started again. "Subcommnder T'Pol is in the midst of the secondary maturation phase for females of her species, the pon frell. She... at her age, Vulcan females normally co-habitate with their bond-mate. When... the time comes, they mate both physically and mentally... the female's maturation to full adulthood from this point takes about a year, with frequent sexual and telepathic contact."  
  
Jon stared at the doctor. T'Pol was going through... puberty?  
  
Plox continued, almost as if he were afraid to stop. "There are a few documented cases of Vulcan men living through what I take is the male equivalent of this maturation phase -- the texts don't describe it openly -- by using extreme forms of relaxation techniques, drug therapy, and intense meditation. I have searched every medical database I have, and can find nothing pertaining to female survival rates..." Phlox cleared his throat, and stared at his hands. "Without a mate, the hormonally-induced fever will kill her. I believe the only option is to take her to Vulcan."  
  
"Does T'Pol know?"  
  
"That she is in the early stages of pon frell, yes. That her condition has progressed, no. That I am now speaking with you as her doctor to her commanding officer, no. The unengaged phase can last up to five years, and she has come to sickbay regularly for both nasal inhibitors and hormone therapy. It was working until recently. . ." He paused, and let out a low whistle. "The drug regimen the Suliban administered during her... interrogation... stimulated both adrenal and hormone production, and accelerated the cycle. Until the chemicals fully dissipated, we couldn't determine the effects on her own body chemistry. The fever, aches, unease and agitation she has been experiencing we had both attributed to the Suliban drugs... the tests I ran this morning show the symptoms are not after-effects. She is progressing to the engaged phase of pon frell."  
  
"How long before her condition is critical?"  
  
"Her frontal-lobe synaptic activity is becoming erratic, and it is stressing her mental controls. She told me she has been putting extra effort into her meditation since Tolaris' "mind meld," but that the repair schedule has not allowed her to maintain her routine. I won't be able to compensate for the changes in blood chemistry much longer using Anaprovalin and Gerraxon. I won't be able to control the hormone production or fever spikes. Two weeks, maybe three."  
  
***  
  
Two weeks... two weeks... they could make it back to Vulcan at high warp in a month. With three decks exposed to the vacuum of space, sustained high warp was out of the question. Jon did the math in his head again as he worked his way to E deck. Way too late, if Vulcan was where they needed to be... Options, what were the options? Take her all the way to Vulcan, and hope she lived that long? Meet a Vulcan ship mid-way? How could he explain that to Admiral Forrest and Ambassador Soval? Private matters, indeed! Could you find a Mr. T'Pol and put him on your fastest ship, no questions asked?  
  
And both supposed she had a bond-mate waiting for her, and that she wanted to go home... she's never even mentioned a husband, fiancée, or boyfriend... but she's chosen to stay here on Enterprise twice, twice!*... she knew what was happening to her, and didn't go home. Maybe there was no one there. Maybe there was no bond-mate on Vulcan waiting for her. Or maybe there was and she didn't want him, or didn't want him as much as she wanted to be on Enterprise.  
  
The captain of the Enterprise stopped in the center of the corridor, pinched the bridge of his nose, and looked at the door panels to get his bearings. Had he had this headache all day, or did it just start? O, boy. Walk, Jon, keep walking.  
  
T'Pol doesn't like humans, he objected to himself feebly... we're smelly, and emotional, and unpredictable, and stubborn, and diplomatically immature... but she's stayed here with us. She eats with us, banters with us, stands up for us... whenever I've needed her, she's been there. I didn't expect it, but now I've come to rely on it... her, on her. She cares for my ship, and my crew, even if she won't admit it... She endured torture to protect the ship, and me...  
  
"Admiral Jonny Archer." I know I saw her smile, just a little when she read it... She gave me a book about logic... Was it about her... understanding her? Ambassador V'Lar said T'Pol and I have a bond... do we? Would I do? So she could stay here on Enterprise, and not go back to Vulcan... not leave us without a science officer... not leave? Would I do? I would, I...  
  
"Ahem... Captain? Are you okay?" Crewman Michaels asked for the second time, looking concerned.  
  
"Oh, yes, sorry for stopping in traffic..." Jon stammered, "I wasn't paying attention." The captain stepped aside and kept walking, amazed that he'd gotten lost on that train of thought. Where had that come from?  
  
Fine. It was an option he could offer her... better than death, right? And she hadn't flat out refused him when he'd bumbled on about the friction between them, after Porthos had recovered. No, she'd cited protocol: he was her superior, she'd said. He was, and he was responsible for her, and not hypothetically... He was strong, healthy -- not as physically strong as she was, but strong... he could shower... and... make love to her, for... a year... if he had to. O, boy.  
  
Jon Archer felt himself blush and stiffen at the same time. He dropped his head and rubbed his temples, shifting his hips to make a bit more room in his jumpsuit. He saw feet... and gave himself a mental kick. Be aware, Jon.  
  
"How are the hull repairs coming?"  
  
"Progress is satisfactory. Four more compartments have been sealed during this shift, and we are testing them under pressure now." Subcommander T'Pol shifted the oversized PADD she was carrying from gloved hand to gloved hand and back as she looked him over head to toe, appraising. "Do you have a headache?"  
  
"Uh, yes... it's been an interesting day."  
  
"Yes..." She nodded, and changed the subject. "I was just about to contact Mister Tucker. The 17-E bulkhead is showing microfractures, and should be replaced or reinforced before we proceed to repairing the next deck. I am... reluctant... to interrupt his first off shift this week, but we cannot afford to lose the repair time."  
  
He studied her face, looking for... anything to confirm what Phlox had told him. Fever? Weakening control? Anxiety? She was obviously tired, and dirty -- but she was focused. She had been working with Trip, working with the engineering crews in EV suits to repair the decks blown out on the port primary by the Romulan mine. It had been a week of hard physical labor, 21 shifts so far. Adrenaline... she was living on adrenaline, he suddenly realized.  
  
"T'Pol, are you okay?"  
  
The science officer nodded, and plucked at the keyboard of her PADD, then pulled off her gloves and unzipped the EV suit with a yank, revealing the form-fitting pressure suit underneath. She punched the keys again, more effectively without the gloves, and frowned slightly at the screen.  
  
"I am... tired, Captain. 16-E seems to be microfractured as well; we will need to address these immediately, before the supply vessel arrives with the new hull plating." She stepped backwards, almost jittery, toward the corridor junction.  
  
Jon swallowed hard, and looked at the sheen of sweat near her hairline: it made her hair curl at her temples, made her glow -- deep gold under the emergency lights. Vulcans don't sweat... do they? O, boy. Humans do. He swallowed again. "Trip and I were watching a football game to unwind, but got interrupted. He's probably in the mess hall or his quarters. I doubt he's asleep yet."  
  
He nodded, trying to regain control of himself, but she'd already spun on her heel and strode down the corridor in search of the chief engineer. He watched her disappear, and knew what he needed to do.  
  
***  
  
*Actually three times, but Archer doesn't know the full story of "Breaking the Ice." 


	2. Tucker

He'd been looking for "development, warp reactors," really. Looking for clues -- how to get more efficiency, more speed out of the Enterprise's primary reactors -- maybe warp 6, even. Now he was stunned, speechless: "development, V.40E female, reproductive." Excellent light reading, he'd thought mischievously when he saw it in the index entries of the Vulcan database. A treasury of factoids to tease her with next time she brought up shore leave and stress-management over dinner... so he read it, for five hours. Stunned, speechless... and then he made the logical connection...  
  
Trip Tucker clicked off the viewscreen, and stared at the still-glowing rectangle on his desk. This is my fault. No, he corrected, this will be my fault... if she dies, it will be my fault. I told her to dump Koss. I took away her release valve. I told her to stay...  
  
Damn! I wanted her to stay... what have I done?  
  
***  
  
"T'Pol... T'Pol... can you hear me?" Nothing. Trip adjusted the frequency, sliding the needle-nose pliers up the wires he'd pulled out of the chime housing -- Amazing you could make a functional solenoid with that, huh? -- and tried again. "T'Pol?"  
  
Nothing. He knew the frequency he needed to reach her chime assembly... he knew, no question. Where was she? Frustrated, and more worried than he felt comfortable being, he slammed his fist into the bulkhead. Damn!  
  
He jerked the pliers down... "Reed... can you hear me? Malcolm?" He heard static in return, and a faint voice. He adjusted the pliers again, carefully this time, and the armory officer's crackling voice blasted in his ear... Damn, where was she?  
  
He'd talked to Malcolm and Phlox -- they were fine... then he carefully tuned his jury-rigged coil for T'Pol's quarters again, and squeezed his eyes shut. "T'Pol? Ya okay? T'Pol?"  
  
"I... am... I..." Faint, shakey, uncertain.  
  
"Stay with me, T'Pol... hang on, let me fix..." he rushed, relived to hear her voice. "Ya okay? Where've ya been?"  
  
"No... not... here..." Trip heard a thump and some scratching. The line went static. Was she pulling apart her chime assembly, too? Finally, the static stopped and her voice sharpened a bit, became stronger. "One of us needs to get out, to Daniels quarters. To... help the captain. What... are our best options?"  
  
***  
  
The Enterprise's chief engineer was exhausted, and filthy... he'd never been this dirty before, he thought idly as he crawled into the port GFS conduit again, plasma torch and one of Reed's portable shield generators tucked into the front of his jumpsuit. Never.  
  
The better part of three decks were gone on the port bow, thanks to a Romulan mine they'd hit. And they'd detached the section of hull plating where a second mine had attached itself... with the Cap'n and Malcolm on top of it... yeah, just surf the shock wave right back to the cargo bay. Whose stupid idea was that?  
  
And now he had nineteen compartments to reconstruct, a dozen more to check for integrity, and 5500 square meters of hull plating to replace... somehow. Damn, what a mess... what a mess!  
  
As soon as they'd dropped out of warp, the entire engineering staff got to work repairing the most critical damage, stabilizing the ship and shoring up the hull. With T'Pol, who appeared out of nowhere in Engineering, he's set up the plan: all staff would work 8 hours on, 4 off, in teams of two or four... rotating EV in the breach and interior support duty. Hopkins and Matthews would man fabrication full-time, making what they could out of what they had, which he knew wouldn't be nearly enough - a seventh of the primary! How would he replace that? This scale of repair would take three months minimum at Jupiter Station... and a hell of a lot longer in deep space. Damn, what he wouldn't give for protein resequencer that could make anything, not just food... a real replicator, to make bolts or bulkheads... they had to get the ship to a drydock somehow... or a drydock would have to come to them. Damn!  
  
So here he was: initial repairs, day 3, shift 8...  
  
"Are you in position, Mister Tucker?" The science officer's voice crackled in his ear unit. She'd made it to the other side of C juncture before him, in her EV suit... in the part of the conduit that was exposed to open space. She didn't have to crawl with a torch in her pants, he thought, too tired to chuckle...  
  
"Almost, hold on... there's lots of debris in here... okay -- can you scan for me?"  
  
"Confirmed, you are directly in front of me, through the port side of the corridor..." T'Pol tapped her gloved hand against the scorched and pockmarked metal in front of her, so he could orient.  
  
"Okay, let's go..." The engineer pulled out the portable shield generator and clamped it to that spot T'Pol had just tapped, then pulled out the array leads. "You have a frequency for me, T'Pol?"  
  
Her voice crackled, "One-four-two, no... one-four-three."  
  
"Done. Move back, darlin', I'm switching it on." The portable unit whined, and the metal of the corridor wall shimmered... the field was holding, amazing, and with luck, it would keep the panel from buckling until it could be replaced properly. They were generating a force field inside the metal of the corridor -- not in front of it, or behind it -- in it! If this worked, he thought, maybe he could incorporate shield generators into all the replacement hull plating... it would make the hull stronger, and the shield strength could be adjustable... no more electrical polarization of the metal itself... he closed his eyes, and tried to set the thoughts aside. Stay on task, Trip. You have a mess to clean up.  
  
"Okay on your end, T'Pol?"  
  
"Affirmative. I am coming in."  
  
***  
  
The entire engineering crew was working in teams of two or four, busy as bees, so Trip met the science officer -- his de facto partner for this shift -- coming out of the amidship airlock himself, his mind struggling to prioritize the next group of repair tasks as he helped her to sit and detach the bulky helmet from the EV suit. "Scott and Zu have 61 and 62 repressurized, but 62 is leaking -- they'll have to go back in -- and Hopkins is making a list of components to be fabricated," he told her. "E deck junctions should probably be next."  
  
Helmet finally off, the science officer breathed raggedly, and fumbled with the zipper of the EV outer suit. She acknowledged his remarks with a distracted nod, and pulled at the gloves she was wearing.  
  
"Let me..." Trip took her hands and pulled gently, slipping the heavy gloves straight off her small hands. They were shaking, and her fingertips were blue-green. "Damn, you're shaking... he grabbed her shoulders and turned her bodily around, to get a look at the gauges. "Pressure, pressure... it's fine, ya shouldn't be shaking. Are ya cold?" Without thinking, he pressed his hand against her neck, and she flinched.  
  
"You're burning up." He felt her cheek, frowned, then tried to take her hand again.  
  
"I am fine." T'Pol pulled away hastily, fumbling with the zipper again.  
  
"No, you're not. Are you sick? Dizzy?"  
  
"I am not ill," she repeated stiffly, and set her mouth in a hard line. Her eyes flickered with anger, or something else.  
  
Trip looked down into her face, astonished as his mind clicked in to what he was seeing... no, she wasn't sick. She was... incredible. Glowing. Beautiful...  
  
"Oh, no... damn!" He spat. "Your timing is incredible, ya know that?"  
  
***  
  
Lieutenant Scott and Crewman Zu burst into the corridor noisily, titanium bracing and torches in hand, preparing for a second excursion into section 62. Scott nodded distractedly at Trip as they passed.  
  
"This is a personal matter, Mister Tucker," she whispered with barely- controlled fury, as she tapped her fingertips absently against the hard com- link panel on her EV suit, leaving dents.  
  
"Damn right it is, and I'm the person responsible. You have to talk to me," he insisted when the crewmen rounded the corner to the airlock.  
  
"You are not responsible. You do not even know what we are 'talking' about," she said through clenched teeth.  
  
"I do so."  
  
"No, you do not."  
  
"You stayed on Enterprise because I told ya to... ya left your husband at the altar, and now you're... needin' one..." he faltered as she glared at him. And then his uncertainty turned to anger as well. What was she doing? "How are you planin' on handlin' this anyway? Or do you just intend to lock yourself in your cabin until you burn up?"  
  
She raised an eyebrow, surprised. "That is a simplistic view of the situation."  
  
"Damn, T'Pol, I read the medical texts. I looked at the schematics... I know the details -- all of them. The 45 degree fever associated with this pon frell -- and that is what it is, I can tell -- will kill you if you don't have an outlet for the adrenaline and the sexual energy. There are no medicines, no drugs you can take... Did you tell Jon? We could get you back to Vulcan..."  
  
"No. I cannot go to Vulcan."  
  
"Koss married someone else." He made the statement, not knowing how he knew it was a fact, but knowing.  
  
"Yes." She looked at him and her mask broke. She glanced around her, with a tinge of sadness. "I thought I would have more time... here..."  
  
"Ya can... we'll fix it, we'll... What about one of us? Every man on the bridge respects ya. You're as good a friend to Jon as I am, and he knows it... and Malcolm... he practically worships ya. All you'd have to do was ask, or show up at his door. A human male wouldn't think about it twice, T'Pol, the taboo isn't there... short term or long term. There's no shame in it, and no commitment if you don't want it," his voice drifted off as he watched her eyes glaze over. She was far away, considering. When she finally spoke, her candid, halting answer was not what he'd expected.  
  
"My... attentions... would likely cause severe damage to a human male. I am much stronger than the Captain, or Mister Reed, and I would not be... controllable for the first several... encounters."  
  
"So, run a marathon first... wear yourself out."  
  
She glared at him, intense, seething again. "We have work to do."  
  
NOTE: If you like, stay tuned for T'Pol's POV and decision... in process now. And in case you haven't noticed, this is TOTALLY different than the actual series' handling of the mine-damage repairs... for my universe, there is no magic space station -- "Dead Stop" never happened (sorry, "Matrix" fans). 


	3. T'Pol

Subcommander T'Pol picked up her grey jumpsuit from the shelf just inside the decon chamber, and followed Ensign Sato and Lieutenant Reed into the dressing area. It was significantly cooler than inside the decon chamber itself... but thankfully there was no Klingon smell here either, she reflected as she dressed. The warmth would be missed, however; it was... pleasant and... soothing.  
  
Glancing across the bench, T'Pol saw the communications officer rub her hands over her goosefleshed arms before thrusting them into the sleeves of her jumpsuit: the ensign was cold as well. And the armory officer? T'Pol turned her head and noted that the lieutenant was dressing with his back to her and Ensign Sato: modesty perhaps? Illogical, but... human. T'Pol studied the musculature of his back for a moment, her mind calling up the Latin names for each easily... and started when she heard her name.  
  
"Yes, Doctor?"  
  
"May I see you for a moment?"  
  
"Certainly." The science officer fastened the closure at her neck, ran a hand over her side to smooth the material of her jumpsuit, and followed Doctor Phlox to his office.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"As you requested, I completed a second scan while you were in decon. I included a baseline blood chemistry analysis..." the doctor paused, and tapped the side of the monitor on his desk. "I was hoping to find a cause for the headache you mentioned, so I checked your medical log as well."  
  
"And did you find something," she asked.  
  
"I'd made a note that the Anaprovalin dosage you required for relief had increased last time you visited sickbay. Your headaches have become more frequent and more severe since you arrived on Enterprise, and correspond to an increase in both adrenal and hormonal levels. Would you like to see the graphical analysis?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Subcommander, I completed both a graduate-studies internship and two tours of duty on Vulcan. I have encountered this... pattern before. Have you experienced any other... symptoms?"  
  
"It is a personal matter, Doctor. I would prefer not to discuss it," T'Pol said flatly, averting her eyes. How he pried!  
  
"I am aware of that. I am also your physician for the time being, and it is my responsibility to care for you. I assume you intend continue your duties as long as possible before returning to Vulcan?" He paused, expecting some comment, and continued when he received none. "The unengaged stage, on average, has a duration of three to five years, as you are probably aware. Your body chemistry indicates that you are approximately a year into pon frell, though we will need to review additional symptomology to corroborate. I recommend that we begin a regimen of Anaprovalin and Gerraxon to inhibit adrenaline and stabilize your hormone levels. Neither will have significant side-effects, or affect your performance. It should also decrease the frequency and intensity of your headaches."  
  
T'Pol looked at him again, and studied his face for a full minute, silent and guarded. "That is acceptable."  
  
The Denobulan nodded, and briefly smiled in relief. "Fine. Return tomorrow before your duty shift, and we'll... do what needs to be done."  
  
***  
  
The communiqué had come during the night shift, so Ensign Sato had forwarded it to Subcommander T'Pol's quarters within minutes of its arrival. It was sent on a standard subspace band, rather than encrypted and sent over a secure frequency. It had been in transit to the Enterprise for 37.231 hours, she calculated, glancing at the time stamp. Low priority. Personal.  
  
It was from her father. It was short. One line, in fact. Five words. Thirty four characters, if translated to English from the Vulcan: "Koss wed T'Lin. Make arrangements."  
  
T'Pol deleted the message without re-reading it. She resisted the urge to rub her temples, or scream. Some part of her -- deeply buried now but coming closer to the surface each day -- wanted to, needed to...  
  
There was no reason now to return to Vulcan. No, she corrected, there never had been... Tomorrow, she would see the doctor... perhaps, with the regimen he had planned, she would have another year for exploration. Just a year... could be enough.  
  
***  
  
The smell was awful. Her nasal inhibitor had worn off... had she been unconscious? T'Pol opened her eyes, squinting through the dank blackness to assess her surroundings. Thread-thin beams of moonlight shone through holes in the wall. Holes from projectile weapons? She sniffed, looking for the acrid stench of gunpowder or another primitive accelerant. She was not alone. Archer... the smell belonged to Archer. He was anxious, and dirty, and sweating... nearby... no, directly behind her, she realized. They were back-to-back tied together at the waist. His breathing was slower that it should have been, she realized... was he unconscious, or merely cold?  
  
Her hands and feet were tied as well... the knots were tight, but not particularly complex. The Vulcan pulled, and twisted her hands, trying to get a look at the knots... Behind her, Archer groaned... "T'Pol? Are you okay?"  
  
Priority one: get loose... the captain and his science officer tried several times to stand, using each other for leverage, as if backing up against a wall. He was quite a bit taller, and she needed several tries to compensate. Finally, they were standing... panting.  
  
"The knots, can you reach them, if we turn so we're face to face?" She nodded and acknowledged, realizing belatedly that he could not see her, exhausted and numb already from the cold and the effort of maintaining her mental shields while in such close contact with him. And the smell... ugh!  
  
Jerkily, she rotated her hips and slid around him under the ropes. There was just enough slack for her to turn. Her breasts were now crushed against his chest, and... his midsection pressed into her abdomen. Her stomach turned as she realized this, feeling the growing warmth of him even through the many layers of clothing. The burning deep inside her flared momentarily -- a hot flash of physical need and a wave of nausea hit her at the same time. She tried to squirm away, make more room between then, and... they fell. She landed hard, directly on top of him. She thought she felt his breath against her chest, even through the cloth. He stiffened against her thighs, and his smell changed. Male pheromones mixed with dirt and sweat. He was becoming aroused, and... amused.  
  
I need to get out of here, she thought wildly as they righted themselves -- with more friction, rubbing, and throbbing -- and attempted to stand again. Get out...  
  
***  
  
"And I thought I'd give you one, too." An apology? Uncharacteristic for the captain, T'Pol noted. Motivated by... what? He was nervous, she realized from his altered scent as much as his lack of eye contact. The sleep- deprived angst and pheromones were gone now, and the panic -- but in their place: fear... Was he afraid of her? Or was he afraid of himself?  
  
"Unnecessary."  
  
"Yes, it is..." He spoke quickly, but not to her... fascinated, she watched his eyes as the pupils dilated slightly, and counted silently to herself as she checked his respiration and the pulse beating at his neck. She raised an eyebrow, astounded at his audacity: a Vulcan man would not mention his sexual desires in such an open manner. A Vulcan commander would never have such a discussion with one of his subordinates, male or female. But the commander's spouse would of course be one of the crew if needed... when needed.  
  
When would *it* be needed, she asked herself idly, and was suddenly surprised. She heard herself replying in calm tones to Archer, to his audacious observation of 'friction' between males and females: You are my superior. It would be inappropriate for us to pursue a relationship of any type, if the 'attraction' were indeed mutual.  
  
T'Pol's mind raced even as the senseless, distracting words she spoke aloud tumbled out: Is it 'mutual'? He is... attaractive and... willing, it seems. Would sexual intercourse with the Captain be enough, knowing his fear of intimacy in general, and of her in particular? Did he have the emotional maturity that would be required, that she would need from him, to survive? She dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it surfaced: Impossible. Not this human, who just so uncharacteristically obsessed over an enslaved quadruped, and become so distracted with selfish, emotional concerns that he was unable to act in the best interest of his ship without great prodding. No, not this human. He was too volatile, unpredictable, unsteady. Unreliable. Un...  
  
T'Pol looked at her commanding officer again, struggling to keep her face carefully blank. She closed her eyes, for just a fraction of a second longer than a blink: control, control. Better to go assist Mister Tucker in installing the plasma conduits secured by the Captain's belated apology. Yes, better to do something useful, something to further the repairs to the wounded Enterprise. 


	4. Decision Made and Analyzed

T'Pol stepped into the mess hall, having made her hasty retreat from Archer, PADD and EV gloves still cradled in her arm. Empty. She sniffed and closed her eyes partway, thinking, deciding...  
  
With a mental shrug, she moved to the wall and opened the sliding door in front of the desserts, removing two plates of strawberry-rhubarb pie. Mister Tucker likes desserts, she rationalized. It was logical for her to bring him something, since she would be interrupting his sleep, imposing on him in the middle of the night.  
  
Balancing plates, gloves, and PADD, she navigated the now-empty corridors to the chief engineer's quarters. She elbowed the door release without chiming, and strode purposefully into his cabin. No one would have thought this strange of late: the science officer and chief engineer were working on repairs practically around the clock... they were in and out of each others' cabins, PADDs and schematics in tow, all the time now.  
  
He was sprawled on the narrow bed, reading a PADD in the dark. His own EV suit was propped in the corner, near the bathroom.  
  
"Commander, I have the update reports on areas 56-59, and the microscans of bulkheads 16 and 17-E," she breathed as the door wooshed shut behind her, "and I have brought pie."  
  
Trip kicked back his blanket and set aside his own PADD, reaching for the one tucked under T'Pol's arm. He stood, flipped the PADD on, and frowned immediately. "These both need replaced. Damn! How many type 6 bulkheads do we have left?"  
  
"One. I recommend we replace 17-E, and leave the decking above 16 open for replacement later. I don't think we can fabricate one with available materials now."  
  
T'Pol set the plates on the desk, and fiddled with her gloves. The chief engineer nodded in agreement, yawned, and ran a hand through his mussed hair. He'd showered since he'd come off shift two hours ago, she noted. He was clean, and smelled... wonderful. She breathed deliberately, and let her eyes roam slowly over his upper body in the dim light: he had superb musculature, she noted absently: well-defined pectoralus major and latisimus dorsi. The engineer had no fat on the obliquus externus or linea alba... she noted a twitch in his inguinal ligament, and followed it from the top of his hip to his... hmmm.... sweatpants. She could hear her heart pounding, and the blood surging through her veins -- in her ears and behind her eyes, in her fingertips, and deep inside -- burning. She was exhausted, dizzy, and so...  
  
Trip seemed to read her thoughts as she stared at him without seeing him. He caught her eye, nodding toward the pie. "Stayin' a while?"  
  
She refocused, raised an eyebrow at him... and put down her gloves decisively, on his rumpled bed. "Yes, I am staying... I neglected to bring forks."  
  
T'Pol closed her eyes and held her breath as he stepped behind her, and pushed the EV suit down off her shoulders, tracing her neck lightly with his finger, until he reached the zipper of the pressure suit.  
  
"We'll improvise, darlin'..."  
  
***  
  
The only light in the room came from below -- a PADD under the bed, her rational mind supplied, green and blue glowing from the scans displayed on the small screen. It must have fallen off the bed. Her PADD was below Mister Tucker's bed, she told herself.  
  
T'Pol closed her eyes and breathed in his now familiar scent from the soft, warm blankets tucked around her, along with a different one: theirs, their fluids mingled together -- the smell of their mating, musky and exotic.  
  
Mating? Mates? Mated, her... with a human. For 5.625 hours. Nine... or ten? Yes, ten... culminations. Mated. With him, a man for whom idiomless grammar was an impossibility, whose passions erupted at the most inopportune times... a brilliant engineer and a gentle man who knew the meaning of loyalty... and silence.  
  
How had she chosen... this, him? She had decided her fate weeks ago, or thought she had... EV suits ripped so easily... an accident, a casualty in the repairs... an end without shame for her here, or her family on Vulcan. No questions. No body to analyze. So easy. So painless. So many shifts, she'd gone into the hull's cold breach -- there was no logic in wasting the adrenaline, or her strength, as long as it could serve the ship. The pressure suit kept her blood from boiling as the hours dragged on, and her fever rose. With pressure, she could work, until she couldn't... couldn't...  
  
Perhaps he'd known, she realized. Perhaps that was why the engineer had met her at the airlock every time, at every hour, why he watched her always with a carefully blank expression, and kept close to her in all the meetings and work sessions. Why he was her partner for every shift: blank faced, as blank as the most stoic of Vulcan masters -- but with those blue eyes that betrayed his concern for her, and glittered with sorrow, or fear... or guilt... or passion. And he'd never said a word, not about what he knew of her 'situation' nor what he suspected.  
  
He loved her, she breathed inwardly, acknowledging what was now so obvious: no, not in the way humans so frivolously extol in poetry and song, but with that silent, strong presence borne of respect and loyalty, and the deepest type of intimacy -- the only type of love a Vulcan could respect or acknowledge for... herself. How long had he loved her? How long had she known, and betrayed her own logic to be with him? She sighed as the image of him in her mind smiled, grinned, beamed. T'Pol felt the heat rising in her again, not turbulent and random this time, but focused... on him. Her mate. Her t'hyla. From the beginning? From the first sight of him in Archer's quarters, possibly. Definitely when she touched him, felt the loyalty he was capable of, in decon...  
  
Hands and face tingling, she pushed the blankets aside and stretched to retrieve her PADD from under the bed. Dress, T'Pol. Find him. 


	5. Disappointment and Fulfillment

Trip flopped down heavily on the floor just inside the door, propped his arms on bent knees, and stared at the candle. He hadn't lit it. He hadn't lit her, either, he thought wryly. Everything he'd read... said... he should have. He should feel her with him now. She should be there, in his mind. And she wasn't. Nothing, except a dull ache behind his eyes.  
  
He was tired, really tired. Six straight repair shifts followed by almost six hours of intense, frenzied lovemaking... He should have been asleep -- blissfully, catatonically asleep. But it wouldn't come: His mind had raced as he held her in the dark, felt her breathing slow and her temperature drop as she drifted into a still, calm sleep in his bed. Why? Why did he feel... cheated? He'd felt her passion physically -- oh, had he felt it, and reveled in it, and responded to it -- but not emotionally. Did she care for him, or was that impossible? She hadn't smiled, or sighed, or cuddled up to him, or opened her mind... she still held herself back, he realized as his heart slowed and the delicious sensations faded. It was great sex... and nothing more. Trip squeezed his eyes shut, willed the tears not to fall, and ran for the one place he knew he could be completely alone. Her place.  
  
The candle was red today, he noted idly. Last week, it had been gold, and green the week before that. She hadn't used this one very long -- maybe an hour or two. Not much meditation time for her... not that she's been anywhere near hear quarters for a long while. Nope, she was always suited up, eager to space walk. Keepin' herself busy, he though wryly, burnin' off all that excess energy. Burnin'...  
  
He's been so afraid, after her reaction to that stupid suggestion of his, that she would just not come in after some shift... let herself float off, let herself run out of air. Would a Vulcan commit suicide? Was it logical to end a life, especially one that is having so much influence: the crew -- hell, all of Starfleet - was learning from her, sometimes kickin' and screamin' -- but they were learning, to reach the stars and stay there. He sighed, and rubbed his temples. Nope, not logical... but to avoid public shame, a scarlet "A" on her chest? Maybe... geeze what would Soval do if he found out? Or her parents? Or Archer, even? Damn, what a mess. Another mess to clean up, worse than the mine damage... a lot worse.  
  
"No strings if ya don't want any, darlin'" he quoted himself to the candle in a whisper.  
  
"And if I do?"  
  
Trip started and turned around to face the whisper. T'Pol was standing just inside the open door, in her EV suit again, gloves and PADD in hand. She stepped further in and knelt next to him slowly as the door slid shut, keeping her eyes on the unlit candle.  
  
He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, studying her profile as he spoke. "Then I'm here. I always will be. I care for you, T'Pol... more than I ever thought I could care about another person."  
  
"I know. It is why I stayed."  
  
"You knew I'd be here." It was not a question, but a statement.  
  
"Yes..." she turned to face him, and was riveted by the raw passion in his blue eyes. "I... felt your elation as we joined, and then your disappointment. I did not realize until then the depth of your feelings... Are you certain that you want me to be... your life mate?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
T'Pol shifted to face him more directly, and took his hands in hers, pressing his battered knuckles to her cheeks. Leaning closer, she moved her hands to cup his face gently, fingertips finding the pulse point at his temple and neck... she held her breath, and waited.  
  
Then he was there with her, silent but present, in her mind. Warm. Joyous. Passionate. Fierce. Protective. Adoring. Loyal. Clever. Ridiculous... all that he was, bare and welcoming before her, without words. Honesty, integrity, elation... his essence surrounded her, along with every schematic he'd ever seen, every warp manifold statistic, every... a flood of vibrancy washing over order and precision, his gift as an engineer, to her, into her...  
  
He gasped in surprise as he felt her presence in his soul, and felt himself reaching deeper, in awe, deeper into her, finally knowing her. She was musical, and funny. A quick, sarcastic wit... that had embarrassed her mother and amused her father. She loved macadamia nuts, and the feel of silk against her skin. Of course, her pajamas, he thought. Damn, and she knows how to skateboard, and sand surf... and... she gets hot every time she looks into my eyes, he laughed out loud, responding instantly to the graphic images of their earlier lovemaking -- was it really just a hour ago? -- that he found in her mind.  
  
"Yes..." T'Pol gasped, and moved her hands away from his face, down his neck and over his chest. She tore at the blue tank Tucker wore, trying to pull it over his head without looking or seeing, captivated by the heat she felt from him in her mind. She felt his arms around her, pulling her closer, fingers fumbling for the zipper on the EV suit again. Head spinning, she rose shakily in front of him, breaking their physical contact... but the wave of passion she felt from him did not lessen. She shook her head, trying to clear it for a moment to see him, to look at him from the outside as well.  
  
Their eyes locked, smoldering with an undeniable physical desire, kindled by their new mental intimacy. T'Pol slid out of the bulky EV suit, kicked it away, and peeled the form-fitting pressure suit down. Tucker's hands caught hers at waist-level, and he slid the thick, creamy fabric over her hips and down her thighs. He leaned in closer... God, he could smell her, practically taste her... he rested his cheek on her hip, and ran his hand over her curved rear and thigh, down her smooth, shapely leg... to boots, damn boots weigh 20 kilos! What?  
  
T'Pol answered his observation with a mental shot of light -- a burst of laughter, almost a giggle, rained over him as she shook off the boots with him pulling at the heels. She leaned into him, desire burning her now, as he lowered her gently to the floor, onto the silk-covered pillows she usually sat on to meditate. He kissed her quivering stomach, and ventured lower, tracing her hip bone with his tongue, finding the hot, slick cleft between her legs. He tasted her -- new pennies, he chuckled -- and heard her moan. She pressed herself hungrily into him, filling his mind and mouth with flaming red silk.  
  
She felt a thousand kisses, each one full of fire and light, from her hip to her breasts, to her arms and neck. He lowered himself on top of her, gently, and she felt him throbbing, pulsing against her hip, and in her mind, shining, glistening joy... she pressed into him with her hips, pulled him down to her with her hands, almost clawing, to catch his lips in a deep kiss. His tongue touched hers, then played around her lips... teasing, fanning the flames behind her eyes... I could do this all day, he smirked, and felt her shudder... oh, no!  
  
Quicksilver laughter again, and then she was on top of him, straddling him... she ran her hands over his face, sending sparks and fireworks into his mind again with the added physical contact... and down his chest. She tore at the waistband of his old, grey sweatpants, yanking them down with her hands -- sliding them off his legs with her foot as she rubbed herself over him. Indeed? All day? Are you certain?  
  
Tucker moaned, and reached for her hips, pushing her roughly into position... and up, he buried himself in her... hot, steaming, smoldering silk. He gasped, panted, and tried to force his eyes open. Her hips took up the rhythm he'd started, and he moved his hands up her sides, cupped her breasts. He strained and curled up to her, sucking at one taught nipple, rolling and teasing the other, feeling the immediate flashes of pleasure he gave her, and the culmination building in her... deep, deep in her, as he thrust and filled her and his pleasure flooded into her mind.  
  
T'Pol threw her head back, and ground against him, meeting him, daring him, willing him to come closer, deeper... and she exploded. And then her mind was silent, except for the gentle sound of his breathing... she had curled around him in their shared climax, pulling her legs in close to his sides, fingers clenched on his shoulders.  
  
He kissed her ear, the slighted flutter of his lips on her flesh, and she felt him shake himself to coherence.  
  
"Very certain, darlin'" he whispered. 


	6. Tension and Relief

Archer poured himself another coffee, spooned in too much sugar substitute, and slid into the seat across from his chief engineer. For the past week, he's been avoiding item one on his list of things to do -- talk to T'Pol - and, well, today was 15 days from Phlox's mark: it was time, and he was still working up the courage, mentally rehearsing his approach... so what was five more minutes? "You look beat, Trip."  
  
"Long month, sir." Trip dragged his last forkful of pancake through the pool of syrup on his plate and popped it unceremoniously into his mouth -- food eaten for sustenance, not enjoyment, this time.  
  
"Yeah, you didn't even come back for football. How're the repairs coming along? T'Pol put herself back in the bridge rotation as of tomorrow, so I assume they're past the critical phase?"  
  
"There's still a lot to do, but we're almost warp-worthy again for sustained speed... probably by the end of tomorrow. 'Bout 80% complete from our original damage assessment. We're working on integrating improvements now, so it's slowing us down a bit. I tell ya, Jon, for a science officer, she's a hell of a design engineer."  
  
"T'Pol? Really?"  
  
"Yeah, using Malcolm's force fields to shore up the damaged hull plating was her idea - totally new application, not a top-secret Vulcan one she decided to let slip. She's up on the bridge now, runnin' the numbers to see if we can generate enough power from the current warp configuration to rig up the whole ship once we have access to a drydock."  
  
"How's she been... otherwise?"  
  
"Uh, okay. Worked to the bone like the rest of the engineerin' staff... more shifts, since she doesn't need sleep as often. Great stamina. It's all I can do to keep up with her."  
  
Archer coughed, choking down the mouthful of coffee he'd taken, praying silently that Trip didn't see him blushing like a schoolgirl. That's just all he needed to hear now...  
  
***  
  
Subcommander T'Pol spread out another set of hastily-drawn schematics over her science station console, and traced her finger down the serpentine rows of neat figures Tucker had penned in the margins, calculating the standard variation in her head as she thought of the smooth line made by his neck and shoulder, the last thing she usually saw, inches in front of her face, before losing herself... T'Pol bit the inside of her cheek and lectured herself sternly: this is not the time, not the place. There are only 4.216 hours left in this duty shift.  
  
The set of schematics she had been working on a moment ago and pushed aside recoiled into a loose cylinder and thunked hollowly to the floor. You can't ignore me. I spring up at the slighted provocation... look how phallic that was, darlin'. She rolled her eyes and frowned ever so slightly at the image of him in her head, teasing and tantalizing.  
  
Ensign Sato giggled from her console nearby, amused by T'Pol's outward struggle. "Why don't you work in the ready room, Subcommander? You could use the desk and side table for the plans."  
  
The science officer focused, assessed. "Excellent suggestion, Ensign." T'Pol gathered the paper schematics and PADDs as slowly as she could manage in anticipation of private retreat, "I will be in the ready room. You have the bridge."  
  
Hoshi smiled, and eagerly moved to the big chair.  
  
***  
  
Commander Tucker strolled on to the bridge half an hour later, PADD and a tray of metal cubes in hand. From the center seat, Ensign Sato noted with pleasure that the chief engineer was clean for the first time in weeks.  
  
"Hey, Hoshi... where's she?"  
  
"Ready room, waging war on your schematics. More table space." The petite ensign hitched her thumb over her shoulder, and stopped mid-gesture: not very authoritative, she sighed.  
  
"'Kay. You look good there, by the way..." Trip winked at her and slid through the door of the ready room, where T'Pol stood working at the desk terminal. The screen was tilted at an outrageous angle, and the hardcopy schematics they'd drawn off shift over the past week -- usually while naked on the floor of the Vulcan's spartan quarters -- covered every flat surface.  
  
"I have metallurgy samples for the hull plating," he said without preamble. "How's it comin'?"  
  
"There would be more progress if you would stop distracting me."  
  
"Distracting? How could I be distracting," he asked, feigning innocence, though he could feel the desire building in her again beneath her outwardly calm exterior, through their link. He bent to get a better view of the screen over her shoulder, eager to see the power figures she'd been working on, to know if it was possible -- but was overwhelmed by the heat and desire radiating from her, as he leaned closer, now that he was in the room. He pressed his chest and hips against her back, reaching for her hands. "Isn't this supposed to... uh... taper off, sometime? We've made love so many times in the past couple of weeks, I lost count. I can't feel my underwear..."  
  
"A Vulcan female's cycle quickly synchronizes to that of her husband, Tucker," she breathed, a husky whisper.  
  
"So this is all my fault, yer sayin'?"  
  
"Yes, for at least the last one hundred and seven point five encounters."  
  
"That many, huh?" She could hear the smile in his voice... and knew it was not because of the number, but because she'd used the English word, aloud.  
  
"You should return to engineering..." she turned and straightened in his awkward embrace, found herself looking at the hollow of his neck. She watched his pulse beat -- afraid to meet his eyes, afraid losing all control while she was on duty -- and breathed in the intoxicating scent of him. She felt herself beginning to melt, again, helpless as he pressed himself against her, searing in spite of layers of uniforms. "...*now*, Commander."  
  
"So what's the point five?" He lowered his head, pressed his lips against the corner of her full, pouting mouth, and reached out for her with his mind... just for a second, just... he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, shuddering as the flames of her still-heightened drives licked his vision.  
  
"What in the hell are you doing?"  
  
Trip turned hastily, keeping T'Pol behind him, trying to give her time to compose herself, focus again... Damn, Jon, what timing! Son of a bitch!  
  
"Uh, working on schematics for the plating shields?" Trip tried, color rising.  
  
Jonathan Archer stood equally red-faced in the open door of the ready room, expression a mixture of shock, embarrassment, and... something much more complex. Anger? Jealousy? The captain's eyes flashed, cold and hot at the same time.  
  
"No you weren't," he said shortly, stepping into the room. The noise of the bridge vanished as the door snapped shut. Silence.  
  
T'Pol, composed now and outwardly impassive, took a step away from Tucker, meeting the captain's glare steadily, but with a lingering hint of fire. Archer swallowed, hard... had they? Oh, boy... the way they had been looking at each other... yes, they had. How had he missed it? The palpable connection between them? The easy familiarity? "How long... has this been going on?"  
  
"I just got here, Jon... metallurgical samples for the new hull plating."  
  
"Don't be dense, Trip," Archer said through clenched teeth.  
  
"A couple o' weeks."  
  
"I can't believe you'd take advantage of T'Pol like this. I thought you were a gentleman."  
  
What? What the hell was he talking about? Trip dared a glance at T'Pol, who was studying Archer with great intensity: She smelled surprise, and the older, lingering stench of fear as well. His eyes blazed, too, with some type of tormented passion not based in this encounter. He... knows about the pon frell, she realized suddenly, eyebrow arching with her own surprise. He knows!  
  
"Ya shouldn't make assumptions, Cap'n." Trip snapped, astounded as he compared notes with T'Pol in a split-second glance, then reading the captain's expression and stance easily after their long friendship... Archer had assumed T'Pol would be with him!  
  
Uncharacteristically, T'Pol shook her head, a visual echo of her vehement mental denial: I have given him no reason to make that assumption. Trip knew it already, without a doubt, but... did Archer?  
  
"You have no idea what you've gotten involved in," Archer started again, volume rising slightly with his defenses.  
  
"I think I know better than you do."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Really." Trip went out on a limb, guessing, "Would you have known about T'Pol's condition if Phlox hadn't told ya?" Seeing Archer pale, he continued. Bingo! "Would you have noticed the change in her eye color, or the tone of her skin? Or her voice? Could you tell what she was feeling from across the room?"  
  
Archer stared at the engineer, mouth open. He was so over his head, he realized... all along, he's been dreading... knowing deep down that something was wrong, or at least not right. "And you could?"  
  
"You weren't ready for this, Jon. Hell, how long have you known, and you couldn't even talk to her about it? You're my best friend... but you have to realize that this has nothing to do with you, and it never did. Whatever it was you'd talked yourself into, I'm sure was well-intentioned... but it was *you*, not T'Pol... I'm sorry, the timing sucks, Jon... and yes, we probably would have ended up nekkid on your floor, but you know what's involved, I'm sure Phlox told you that, too."  
  
"So this is just sex, between you and T'Pol?" He asked, regretting it almost immediately, but having to know, even if it hurt all of them to ask: Could it have happened, between him and T'Pol? Ever?  
  
T'Pol stepped forward, back straight, face a mask. Tucker knew that she couldn't let it slide. "No, Captain, the relationship is permanent -- by our mutual choice. The quality and intensity of the physical copulation is an unexpected benefit."  
  
Archer stared at her. T'Pol had carefully, logically chosen Trip, he realized... probably for the same reasons he had himself... his best friend, the same man who danced on tables and wore Hawaiian shirts at parties, collected baseball cards, and spouted his opinions without thought to the consequences? His loyal, compassionate, perceptive, supportive best friend. Over him. And Archer never saw it coming, never suspected... and he should have known.  
  
"I thought..."  
  
"You assumed... and your assumption was based on incomplete information." T'Pol relented, seeing the confusion and raw hurt in the captain's eyes. "Thank you for your concern, however... and your... willingness to assist me. The... symptoms of my condition are under control, and should not be a distraction to either Mister Tucker or myself... for much longer."  
  
"I see." Embarrassed and still confused, Archer retreated. As the ready room door closed behind him, he breathed a sigh of... relief.  
  
***  
  
Trip was stretching on the center mat when Archer entered the gym after shift. The captain tossed his towel to the side, and eased himself onto the weight bench nearby.  
  
"Trip?"  
  
"Yeah?" The engineer didn't look up.  
  
"Sorry. I acted like an ass." Jon pressed up, a heavier bar than he was used to: Travis' or Malcolm's probably. "I was surprised, and..."  
  
"S'okay, Jon..."  
  
"Should I apologize to T'Pol," he ventured, wondering if this apology could be as disastrous as the last one he offered her. "She couldn't have chosen better, I do know that. You've been my best friend for years; T'Pol and I have that in common, now."  
  
"She'll forgive ya."  
  
The two men worked out in silence for a moment, each preoccupied with the implications of that.  
  
"Trip?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"A hundred and seven times?"  
  
"Mind yer own business, Jon..."  
  
*** FINIS ***  
  
UPDATE NOTE: Yielding to popular demand, the author retools Archer ever so slightly, defying the characterizations of B&B, to make him a man instead of a 3-year-old... hope this is more satisfying to all. 


End file.
